


Chasing Pavements

by BansheeLydia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Hate Sex, M/M, Mutual Pining, Top Jackson Whittemore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 04:56:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9368900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BansheeLydia/pseuds/BansheeLydia
Summary: He’s not even sure what they were arguing or what they said to piss each other off so much; he’s not sure he even cares.  The only thing he can focus on is Jackson’s hands as he unbuttons Stiles’ shirt, dropping it to the floor.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ericaismeg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ericaismeg/gifts).



The second the door closes, Stiles is pressed up against it by a hard body, hands reaching up to cup his face as Jackson’s mouth covers his own almost desperately.

His brain feels scrambled for a second before he catches up; he presses his hands firmly against Jackson’s chest as if to shove him away, but instead his fingers curl in his shirt, dragging him even closer, bodies pressed tight together and Jackson’s thigh between his own as he kisses back just as hard, just as demanding. He bites at Jackson’s lower lip and smirks when Jackson’s head snaps back, tongue flicking out to lick the bruised spot.

“You’re such an asshole,” Jackson grits out, fisting his hands in Stiles’ shirt and shoving him back against the door, following him with his mouth.

He kisses him feverishly, unrelentingly, and Stiles lets himself drown in it, closing his eyes and tipping his head back as Jackson trails a path down his jaw and throat, leaving little nips and hot kisses. He pauses to kiss a mole and Stiles is distracted by the almost-sweetness of it, but then Jackson’s cupping his jaw and pressing his face back so he can mouth a bruise over his pulse point.

Stiles drops his hand, fumbling with the lock before he manages to turn it, making sure they won’t be interrupted. He can still hear the music coming from downstairs, can feel the bass vibrating the door against Stiles’ back, but it’s muffled and it feels like he’s isolated in his own little world with Jackson, everything narrowing down to Jackson’s mouth on his throat and the hard cock he can feel pressing against him.

“You’re so fucking infuriating,” Jackson mutters, tone scathing even as he tugs impatiently at Stiles’ belt, pulling him with him towards the middle of the room. “Think you’re the smartest person in the fucking _room_ , you’re so fucking…”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Stiles bites back, tugging impatiently at Jackson’s shirt. He gets it off and tosses it aside, dragging his fingernails up Jackson’s chest to slide his hands into his hair, tugging as he kisses him hard, backing him towards the bed. “Fucking arrogant _dick_ , I _swear_.”

He’s not even sure what they were arguing or what they said to piss each other off so much; he’s not sure he even cares. The only thing he can focus on is Jackson’s hands as he unbuttons Stiles’ shirt, dropping it to the floor. He keeps pressing biting kisses to Stiles’ mouth in between undressing them both; Stiles’ jeans end up on Danny’s empty bed and his boxers end up caught up in the blinds, but he doesn’t pause as he straddles Jackson on his bed, tugging his head back roughly as he kisses across his chest.

He doesn’t have to look anymore to open Jackson’s nightstand and find the bottle of lube he keeps there. He grabs a condom from the pile at the back and sits up, but Jackson practically snatches the bottle from his hand.

He shoves at Stiles’ shoulder. “Move over.”

Stiles resists the urge to stick his tongue out as he moves onto his hands and knees. The bed dips and creaks as Jackson settles behind him and the room is quiet for a moment as he pops the cap and slicks up his fingers. A strong hand grips his hip, steadying him, as Jackson’s finger slips between his cheeks. He teases Stiles’ hole, waits for Stiles’ impatient “ _for fuck’s sake, Jackson_ ” before he carefully eases it in. 

Their breathing is harsh and Jackson’s hand is firm at his hip, but he’s careful as he slowly works his finger in and out, making sure Stiles is ready before he adds another. He crooks them and Stiles can almost hear Jackson’s smirk when he grunts, cock twitching. He fucks him slowly, making him feel _good_ , and Stiles makes an impatient sound, pressing back.

“Just _fuck_ me already,” he snaps.

Jackson swats his ass in response, sharp enough to leave a sting, and Stiles’ toes curl, cock hard and aching. He bites back a moan but Jackson gives a breathless laugh anyway, pleased at the reaction. He keeps stretching him with his fingers, getting him loose and slick, and it irritates Stiles. He doesn’t know why it infuriates him so much that every time they do this, Jackson is always so careful with this part, always making sure he’s completely ready before he fucks him. He never, ever hurts Stiles (at least, never in a way that Stiles hasn’t explicitly asked – or begged – for). 

He keeps working Stiles open and Stiles rocks back, mouth open and hands twisting in the sheets. It feels like forever before Jackson finally pulls back. Stiles listens to the tear of the condom wrapper; Jackson’s hand curls around his throat loosely and he pulls him up onto his knees. He knocks Stiles’ knees further apart with his own and grips his hip, slowly entering him. It’s slow and hot and Stiles’ mouth opens but he can’t utter a single noise, can only try and breathe as Jackson bottoms out, front pressed to his back as he mouths at Stiles’ neck.

Jackson rocks slowly inside him, waits for Stiles’ moan and wriggle back before he _really_ starts to fuck him, slow and hard, each thrust rocking Stiles’ whole frame and stoking the arousal coiling in his gut. 

“Fucking _fuck_ me already,” Stiles grits out, reaching back to dig his fingers in Jackson’s thigh, encouraging him.

Jackson grips Stiles’ hair in one hand, keeping his body pinned against Jackson’s and his throat exposed, his other hand curled loosely around Stiles’ neck. Stiles can’t move, can only breathe and moan and take it as Jackson fucks him brutally, hips snapping and the harsh sound of flesh meeting flesh loud in Stiles’ ears as he pounds into him. Each thrust rocks the bed against the wall and Stiles manages to brace one hand against the headboard, holding on as Jackson thrusts into him.

“Like that?” Jackson breathes in his ear, scraping his teeth against his earlobe, and Stiles almost whimpers, toes curling. “You gonna come, baby? Come from me using your tight hole?”

And Stiles _hates_ that, hates how Jackson can make the lines that Stiles would laugh at if it was a line in porn sound like the sexiest fucking thing he’s ever heard, voice low and throaty, punctuated by little nipping kisses. 

He’s going to have bruises; on his hips, on his neck and throat and shoulders. He’d never admit it to Jackson, but he likes feeling them after, likes to trace them in the shower and feel the throb when he gently presses them. Jackson tugs roughly at his hair, slams into him, and Stiles moans louder, so fucking close to the edge. He moves his free hand to his cock, stroking as he meets Jackson’s thrusts, and he comes with a wrecked cry, trembling and spilling over his fingers.

He gives a soft sound when Jackson carefully pulls out; Stiles registers the condom hitting the floor nearby and he can hear the slick sound of Jackson stroking himself. Hot come splashes over his back a moment later and he closes his eyes at Jackson’s soft grunt, just holding onto the headboard as he struggles to remain upright. Jackson keeps his hand on his hip as they catch their breath. He waits until Stiles manages to lock his knees before pulling back and Stiles watches as he grabs tissues from the nightstand. He cleans them both up, meticulously removing as much lube as possible before tossing the tissues in the trash.

Stiles still feels sticky and it will take a good shower to get rid of the lube entirely, but he’s comfortable enough for now. His ass is sore, aching, and he shuffles about as Jackson strips the sheet and shoves it in the laundry hamper.

“You need to stop getting spunk on my sheets,” he grumbles, climbing back onto the bed. “Asshole.”

Stiles shrugs in response, settling down under the blanket, getting comfy. He needs to get dressed and leave, but his limbs don’t feel ready to cooperate just yet. Jackson doesn’t comment on it, either, instead climbing in next to Stiles. They don’t speak; Stiles stares at the ceiling and Jackson checks his phone before setting it aside. He shifts slightly, kissing Stiles’ chest, and it makes Stiles’ heart sink because this is different. The kisses are gentle, not foreplay but affectionate little brushes off his lips down his stomach before Jackson just rests his head there.

It makes Stiles feel weird. They don’t do this. They don’t stay after and they don’t cuddle and Jackson isn’t affectionate. It’s just not what they do and Stiles’ mouth is suddenly dry, post orgasm bliss shattered.

“I need to go,” he mutters, sitting up.

Jackson yawns, shrugging slightly. He watches as Stiles gets up and climbs off the bed, searching the room for his clothes and yanking them on. When he’s dressed and he’s smoothed down his hair, he glances at Jackson, unsure what to say. Usually one of them leaves while the other is still cleaning up or coming down from their orgasm and no words are needed, but this feels different.

“See ya,” he finally mutters and tries not to rush from the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

The party is still raging downstairs. Stiles quietly leaves through the front door, zipping his jacket up to ward off the chill.

He aches the whole way home.

***

It always happens at parties.

They don’t speak the rest of the time. But there’s some kind of unspoken rule that it’s okay at parties. It’s usually at the ragers Jackson’s frat house regularly throw. They argue – they _always_ argue – and they piss each other off and push each other until the tension snaps and they’re kissing and tearing at clothes.

It happens more regularly than Stiles would like to admit. Regularly enough that he’s tried things with Jackson that he hasn’t in long term relationships. He’s been tied up, he’s tied Jackson up. They’ve used toys, they’ve used gags, they’ve used whipped cream. They switch a lot and Stiles has let Jackson put his mouth on his ass, and Jackson has let him plug his come inside him after being fucked. It’s usually, but not always, quick. It’s always rough. It’s always angry. It’s hate sex and it’s really fucking incredible hate sex.

It…works.

Mostly.

Stiles ignores the weird feelings he gets sometimes. He ignores how he sometimes wishes for softer kisses, ignores the times his mind wanders to thoughts of Jackson and he feels _fond_.

After that first time, Jackson regularly kisses his way down his stomach after sex. It’s gentle and he always rests his head there after.

Stiles ignores it.

It works.

***

Until it doesn’t.

They’re not at Jackson’s, for once. Isaac’s throwing a _thank fuck exams are over let’s get drunk before Christmas break_ party and the small student apartment is crammed full of people. Stiles has had a couple of beers and he’d been having fun, and then Jackson had picked an argument. Scott and Kira are sharing a look and Lydia’s rolling her eyes and something inside Stiles just…snaps.

Jackson’s smirking at him, waiting for a reply to whatever barb he just offered, and Stiles is done. He’s _done_

“Fuck you, Jackson,” he says. It’s half hearted. He finishes his beer in one gulp and gently places the empty bottle down on the counter.

Both Scott and Jackson are looking at him now and Stiles can’t bring himself to say anything, so he doesn’t. He’s tired. He can’t do this. He reaches out, claps Scott on the shoulder lightly, before slipping through the crowd of people, zipping up his jacket as he reaches the door. 

A hand curls around his wrist.

“Stiles?”

Jackson’s voice is uncharacteristically quiet, almost timid. Stiles pulls his wrist away with a soft “don’t”. 

He can feel Jackson’s gaze on him as he slips out of Isaac’s apartment and it’s not until the door is closed and he’s alone in the corridor that he can finally breathe. 

***

_[11:15pm. From: Asshole in the Tighty Wighties] was it something i said??_

_[DELETED]_

_[11:38pm. From: Asshole in the Tighty Wighties] i didn’t mean it._

_[DELETED]_

_[12:04am. From: Do Not Call] Stiles, srsly, what did i do?_

_[DELETED]_

_[2:45am. From: Do Not Call] Stiles, I’m sorry._

_[DELETED]_

_[3:12pm. From: Do Not Call] Stiles, it’s been 3 days. Just talk to me??_

_[DELETED]_

_[11:17am. From: Number Withdrawn] I’m sorry._

***

The texts stop coming.

Stiles hates himself for it, but he can’t bring himself to delete the last one he received. He stares at it, reading those two words over and over, heart aching. He knows Jackson doesn’t understand, but he’s apologizing. Stiles never expected Jackson to even bother contacting him and the amount of texts, the unexpected _care_ Jackson’s showing, chews him up inside.

But he can’t bring himself to talk to Jackson. He’s never been good at protecting himself when it comes to his heart and he knows how easily Jackson could hurt him. It’s easier to just curl up and ignore everything in the hopes it’ll go away than try and deal with his feelings.

He sighs, locking his phone and setting it aside before curling up on the couch, cuddling up in his blanket. It’s Christmas Eve and his dad’s working, so he’s alone and it’s cold and there’s an ache in his chest. He switches on the TV, burying the bottom half of his face in his blanket.

He’s flicking aimlessly through channels when the doorbell rings. With a groan, he gets up, letting the blanket sweep behind him like a cape as he pads to the front door, opening it with a yawn.

He pauses with his mouth still open when he sees Jackson stood on his porch, a bouquet of roses in his hands.

“What the f…”

Jackson clears his throat. “Can I come in?” When Stiles just stares, he raises his eyebrows and adds, “It’s freezing out here, Stiles.”

Stiles blinks and steps aside, letting Jackson enter the house. He closes the door, watching as Jackson looks around his living room before making himself at home on the couch.

“Did you…did you drive all the way out here?” Stiles asks. “Seriously?”

Jackson actually looks _embarrassed_. “I need to apologize.” He holds out the bouquet. “Here.”

Stiles slowly steps forward, taking the roses. The cellophane crinkles in his hand and he looks down at the flowers, heart squeezing.

“Why?”

“Why?” Jackson repeats, brow furrowing slightly. “I upset you. I’m not sure…what I did, but I upset you, and I…I need to fix things. I miss you, Stiles.”

“You miss fucking me.”

“Yeah,” Jackson lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I miss that. But I miss the conversations too.”

“Arguments.”

“Not always. We talked, sometimes. I miss that. I miss your smile and your moles and I miss – I miss the times after we had sex, when we could just be still and quiet and I could touch you, okay? I miss _you_.”

A lump swells in Stiles’ throat and his knees feel weak. Slowly, he sinks down onto the couch, roses still in his hands.

“I love you.”

Jackson’s gaze snaps to him. “What?”

“I love you,” Stiles repeats, taking a deep breath. “I love you and I can’t…I can’t keep arguing with you and fucking you and that being it. I just can’t.”

He waits for Jackson’s reply, heart pounding, and he doesn’t dare breathe when a hand reaches out, resting gently on his own. He looks up, taking in Jackson’s soft smile.

“I’ve been falling for you harder every day, Stiles.”

“Holy…really?”

“ _Yes_ , really.”

Stiles practically tosses the roses aside, flipping his hand to squeeze Jackson’s fingers. “Do you want to maybe try…us?”

Jackson’s body slowly tips closer, lips brushing his temple. “Without a doubt.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm currently accepting prompts at allirica.tumblr.com


End file.
